_III._ THE LITTLE FRENCH NURSE. It was not very long before the Maori boys, who had gone straight to old England, were drafted across to France, and they were soon in the thick of the Great War, fighting for all they were worth. Henare was well to the fore, and it was often remarked that he would soon distinguish himself or know the reason why. In fact, all the Maori boys were as keen and fearless as any of their Pakeha comrades, and made a deep impression on all the officers and men about them--and on the Germans in front of them too! At every turn Henare proved himself a wag, a wit, and a hero. He caused many a hearty laugh by his quaint comments on the Anglo-French gibberish, and the churned up conditions of the country--"Py korry t'this country like te kramble egg on tose." He called the mixed-up speech "te half-caste langwidge." But everyone was cheerful and witty on that battlefront--though sometimes there was a grim lull in the fun; just before a battle, and in the thick of it. The wittiest men fought the most desperately, but saved their wit for a pick-me-up afterwards. [Illustration] During an awful fight over shell-holes and battered trenches, Henare was too eager and daring, and the result was a bad wound in the chest by a fragment of shell. He was unconscious and bleeding profusely when picked up by the Red Cross men, so, after first aid, he was conveyed with all speed to the base hospital. He soon became delirious and was not expected to recover. One night about twelve o'clock he opened his eyes and glared at an attendant standing near his bunk. Then, without a moment's warning, he sprang up and grabbed the attendant by the throat yelling at the top of his voice, "Py Hori, you bally ole nigger Wiremu, I catch you t'this time." With some trouble he was put back to bed again, and relapsed into unconsciousness. [Illustration] The next time he awoke, a pretty little French nurse, Marie Bouvard, was sitting by and watching him. She was just a slim little thing, more like a girl of seventeen than a woman of twenty-one. She was a born nurse, her very presence always did the sufferers good. Her voice was soft and healing, her touch was gentle and sympathetic, and her footsteps were like the falling of the snow. When Marie smiled she was at her best, for her solemn little face brightened up like a sudden burst of sunshine on the flowers. Henare watched her calmly for some time without moving, then he closed his eyes, and the man in the next bed heard him murmur,-- "Py ... korry, Py ... korry, I tink I got to Heaven at lars ... t'that the angel face all right ... you bet." * * * * *